


The Right Case

by susandwrites



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock, Case Fic, Dancing, Established Relationship, It's For a Case, M/M, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sherlock can dance, Top John, ballet!lock, john is very impressed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 12:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18261764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susandwrites/pseuds/susandwrites
Summary: "I love dancing. I've always loved it... That rarely comes up in crime work but, you know, I live in hope of the right case."The right case finally comes along and Sherlock gets the chance to showcase his dancing skills. John is incredibly impressed.





	The Right Case

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post: https://thinkanddoodle-batch.tumblr.com/post/183718537529/sherlockedcarmilla-susandwrites and my long-standing head-canon that Sherlock definitely took ballet lessons when he was younger. More to come! <3 Diana

“John! John — oh, it’s Christmas!”

 

Sherlock came twirling into the room and swept Rosie out of her high-chair, giving her a huge smacking kiss on the cheek and completely disrupting John’s attempt to get her to eat her peas. “It’s Christmas!” she repeated with a squeal of laughter. John sighed rather heavily. 

 

“Sherlock, you have  _ got _ to stop saying that. It’s June.”

 

The detective replaced his daughter in her chair and said plainly, “Why? You’re always going on about how I never properly  _ express my emotions _ . Here I am, excited and happy, and trying to convey that to you.”

 

Another sigh. “Because Rosie is old enough to understand what Christmas is, but not old enough to fully grasp the complexities of a calendar.”

 

They both turned to watch her as she tapped her hands against the table and sang (terribly off-key), “Jingle bells, Dimmock smells…”

 

John turned his best  _ See what you’ve done? _ expression to Sherlock, who merely smiled smugly at Rosie’s rendition. “He  _ does _ rather smell—”

 

_ “Sherlock.” _

 

“Oh alright!” Sherlock threw his hands into the air and plopped into a dining chair with abject exasperation. “John, I am positively jubilant. I am filled with glee, the likes of which go unmatched save for the celebration of the birth of our lord and saviour, Jesus Christ.” 

 

John very determinedly did not smile at his husband. “Why?”

 

“Why else? A case!”

 

“A case?”

 

“A case!” Rosie chimed in and John hoped she would forget about “Christmas” in her shared excitement for the Work. 

 

“That’s right!” Sherlock grinned indulgently down at her and scooped up a spoonful of peas which she ate without hesitation.  _ Traitor.  _ Still speaking as if he were reciting  _ Three Little Pigs _ to their four-year-old, Sherlock continued, “Three high-level members of a dance troupe have been threatened with violent deaths. And a  _ fourth _ had actually met his gruesome end! How’s  _ that _ , Rose, darling?”

 

“The game is on!” she answered. 

 

“Indeed it is.” Peas fully consumed, Sherlock dropped her toddler spoon and lifted her from the chair again, settling her in his lap so that they might both stare at John expectantly. 

 

“Well?”

 

“Well  _ what? _ You heard her, John.  _ The game is on _ !” Sherlock gave Rosie a playful little bounce on his knee, eliciting another peal of laughter, and continued to look at John as though he were a puppy about to be adopted. 

 

“That it may be, but you won’t catch me dancing for a case any time soon.” John stood, took Rosie from Sherlock’s arms, and headed toward the bathroom to get her started on her night-night routine. 

 

“Of course not, John,” Sherlock answered as if John were being simple. “You haven’t the necessary skill set.”

 

——

 

Sherlock, it seemed,  _ was _ in possession of the necessary skill set. And, astonishingly enough, the proper attire. He emerged from their bedroom fully-clothed, and yet he might as well have been completely naked for all that was left to John’s imagination.

 

A tight, charcoal grey t-shirt stretched across Sherlock’s muscular chest, his biceps barely contained within the short sleeves. It clung to the fabric of a pair of black tights, the waist of which nearly reached his pecs. The height of their waistline should have been ridiculous, but only served to accentuate the long lines of Sherlock’s torso and the slight narrowing of his waist. His thighs, clad in the black stretch material, rippled with every tiny movement and when he bent down to slide his feet into his leather slippers, John’s heart nearly stopped.

 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” he breathed, unsure of how long it had been since he blinked.

 

“What?” came his distracted reply. He was busy adjusting the elastic of his shoes, bent nearly double.

 

“You… your  _ arse _ ! Good God…” John’s throat had gone bone-dry as he stared. Sherlock had an incredible body ‒ John was obviously intimately aware of this fact. But seeing him swathed nearly head-to-toe in lycra or spandex or whatever the mystery material was was… well, it was practically pornographic.

 

To John’s complete and utter shock, Sherlock actually blushed. Just a little, but still. He ducked his gaze as he stood upright and ran his hands over his hips. “Please, John,” he said, all traces of his usual condescension gone, “it’s just transport.”

 

“Hardly.” John couldn’t help himself; he crossed the sitting room in three quick strides and gripped Sherlock by the waist, eyes raking hungrily over his body. “It ‒  _ you _ are so much more than that.” Sherlock felt impossibly taller, but that did not stop John from stretching upward to run his nose along the exposed line of Sherlock’s collarbone, breathing deep the intoxicating scent of him. “Christ, I could just…” he trailed off as one hand made its way up to Sherlock’s hair, the other waylaid along its journey upward to grasp eagerly at Sherlock’s well-defined pectoral muscle. John kissed him then, breathing almost desperately through his nose as he drank the other man in. Sherlock’s hands made their way to John’s shoulders and pressed weakly against him.

 

“John,” he breathed against his husband’s mouth, gasping as their tongues came into contact. “Mmm…  _ John _ .” After a moment, he seemed to gather himself and pushed more firmly at John’s shoulders. “I can’t ‒ I have to be at the studio in a couple of hours…”

 

“Plenty of time,” John insisted breathily, nibbling at Sherlock’s earlobe in a way that made the taller man’s knees wobble.

 

“I  _ was _ hoping to get in a bit of practice,” Sherlock continued, though his hands had stopped pushing against John and were now unconsciously pulling him closer. “I’m a bit rusty, you know.”

 

“I’m sure you’ll be perfect.” John’s fingers trailed down the rolling muscles of Sherlock’s back and came to rest over the exquisite globes of his buttocks.

 

“Your confidence is most reassuring,” Sherlock replied with a breathy little chuckle. “But I  _ do _ need to practice.” He gasped as John’s grip tightened and lifted his arse cheeks just a bit harder than was necessary, but in a way that was  _ oh so delicious _ . Sherlock  _ did _ love to be manhandled every now and then. “Lives are at stake… Or something….”

 

A huffing little laugh blew out over Sherlock’s clavicle before John finally stepped back, releasing Sherlock from his roving grasp. “On one condition.”

 

“What’s that?” Sherlock swayed a bit at the loss of contact, but maintained his composure.

 

“Let me watch?” John licked his lips in that way that never failed to send shivers of arousal through Sherlock. 

 

“Gladly.”

 

‒‒

 

The grace and elegance with which Sherlock usually moved was elevated beyond anything John had ever seen. When he rolled his shoulders, relaxing the muscles there, Sherlock appeared to be made of liquid, a sentient quicksilver which folded and unfolded with unimaginable smoothness. He bent at the waist, his arms reaching down to wrap around the backs of his calves in a deep stretch before lowering himself to the floor. John’s mouth fell open as Sherlock spread his legs nearly into a split and stretched forward again, his hands wrapped around his ankles and his chest touching the concrete floor of 221C.

 

John’s groin ached in sympathy and his legs crossed involuntarily as he imagined the pain he would be in if he attempted the same thing. Sherlock seemed in a world of his own; he had turned the volume all the way up on his mobile and was stretching in rhythm to a piece John recognized as something from  _ Swan Lake _ , but could not name if there was a gun to his head. When Sherlock rose smoothly to his feet and straightened his back, only to raise his right leg until his knee was grazing his ear, John’s groin tightened in a very different way. 

 

He had obviously seen firsthand the capacity Sherlock had to stretch, fold, and otherwise contort himself. On countless occasions, John had bent the man nearly in two while he pounded into his willing body, chasing his own release. But this was a completely new context for Sherlock’s physicality ‒ he moved with such a grace and, well,  _ beauty _ that John was utterly enraptured. How had he ever gotten so lucky?

 

Sherlock released his leg as the music changed to something a bit more fast-paced. He tapped his toes a few times before surging forward into a true dance. From one end of the room to the other, Sherlock spun in tight spirals, raised on his toes with his arms held gently in front of his chest. His right arm went up in a smooth arc before he leapt into the air with his legs stretched out in either direction and he easily cleared four feet from the ground. John’s eyebrows shot up as Sherlock landed surely and immediately spun round and round until John was dizzy just watching him.

 

Back and forth he danced, throwing his body to and fro with unbelievable control. His every muscle rippled with exertion and in no time at all, he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He leapt and spun and bent and stretched in perfect time with the music. When the last strains of violin faded, Sherlock folded onto the floor with his legs and arms extended in front of him. They were both silent and still for a brief moment before Sherlock sat upright, drew one leg in and rested his arm on his knee as turned to look at John expectantly. 

 

“That was…” John was panting. Why was John panting? All he had done was lean against the wall and try to control his low-watt arousal as Sherlock had transformed his body into a moving work of art. “That was  _ amazing _ .”

 

Trying to catch his own breath, Sherlock tilted his head contemplatively and said, “It was alright. My  _ tour jeté _ used to be much higher.” With a sigh, he stood with a fluid movement and stretched his left hamstring. “I wish I had a barre down here ‒”

 

“Shut up,” John cut him off, pushing himself forward to shove Sherlock against the opposite wall. He gripped Sherlock by the jaw and kissed him as hard as he ever had. Sherlock let out an undignified little whimper as John’s tongue swept over his, but surrendered to the embrace all the same. “You are an absolute wonder and a complete idiot.” John licked a stripe from Sherlock’s clavicle to his jawbone, reveling in the salty taste of his sweat. His skin was hot to the touch and John ached to have his hands all over him.

 

His fingers found their way under the elastic waist of Sherlock’s tights and rolled them slowly downward as John sank to his knees. “I’m an idiot?” Sherlock breathed, his fingers carding eagerly through John’s hair.

 

“Yes.” John placed an open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s well-defined abdominal muscle and said against his heated flesh, “A complete and utter idiot. You’re perfect.” Another kiss and a little nip at his oblique. “And too dense to see it.” He pulled the tights down over Sherlock’s hips and paused, a smile creeping over his face. “Sherlock?”

 

“What?” He sounded deliciously impatient, but John did not move.

 

“What am I looking at?”

 

As though he had forgotten, Sherlock glanced down at his own groin and sighed. John was delighted to see a light pink flush come over his high cheekbones. “It’s called a dance belt.”

 

“It looks like a  _ thong _ to me.” John pulled the broad black elastic band away from Sherlock’s hip and let it  _ snap _ playfully back against his skin. Sherlock twitched at the sensation.

 

“It is a necessary piece of dance equipment,” he answered with an indignant huff that turned into a heady gasp as John took a firm hold of his hips and spun him around. Hands splayed against the wall, Sherlock instantly arched his back, pressing into John’s grip and silently begging for anything at all. Sherlock’s magnificent arse was bared before John, framed by the black material and standing out as he stretched onto his toes. John took each of his pert cheeks in hand and squeezed, pulling them apart to marvel at the thin strip of fabric which covered his hole.

 

“I did wonder why your package looked particularly…  _ proud _ ,” John said with a smirk.

 

“I’d think you’d be more interested in the package than the wrapping.” That elicited a deep chuckle from John as he finally pulled the garment from Sherlock’s hips.

 

“Too right. But don’t think you’ve heard the last about this.” He gave Sherlock’s bum a little swat and delighted at the way it bounced.

 

“John,” Sherlock breathed, “I haven’t got all day‒” His voice broke when John’s tongue delved between his cheeks and he licked a stripe all the way up his crack. John swirled his tongue over Sherlock’s fluttering hole before thrusting the tip inside. Sherlock shuddered and his fingers scrabbled against the wall as he pressed backward against John’s mouth. His grip tight on Sherlock’s hips, John began to fuck him in earnest, his pointed tongue flicking repeatedly into the man before him until he was a quivering mess.

 

After what might have been an eternity, John pulled back and quickly sucked two fingers into his mouth, his left hand reaching around to wrap firmly around Sherlock’s cock. A deep, guttural moan fell from Sherlock’s lips as John slid one finger into Sherlock’s wet hole. He swirled his finger around the rim, stretching just a bit, before pulling out and adding the second finger. Pressing in to the second knuckle. John found Sherlock’s prostate with expert precision and began thrusting in time to his pulls on Sherlock’s erection.

 

“God, John ‒ ah!” Sherlock let out a wanton moan and ducked his head, pulsing his hips between John’s dueling hands. “Just ‒  _ mpfh _ ‒ just fuck me already!”

 

John wanted to make some sort of clever quip, but was distracted by the sensual twist of Sherlock’s hips. He licked at his parched lips, imagining his cock buried in Sherlock’s arse, and decided that being clever was tremendously overrated. “On your front or back?”

 

“Back,” Sherlock panted, stepping out of the tights gathered around his ankles. “I want to see you.” He shuddered when John pulled his fingers from his body and released his grip on his cock. Sherlock spun around and slid to his knees so that he could kiss John as they both struggled to undo his flies at the same time.

 

“I don’t have any…” Before he could continue his thought, Sherlock had lowered himself to the floor and licked a long, sloppy stripe up the length of John’s erection. John flopped unceremoniously onto his back as Sherlock closed his lips around the head of his cock.  _ “Oh, fuck…” _ Sherlock made a truly heroic effort, licking and lapping along John’s cock before taking him fully into his mouth and making an absolute mess of his shaft. In no time, John’s length was covered root to tip in saliva and precum. “Oh, God ‒ Jesus,  _ yes _ …”

 

John squeezed his knees around Sherlock’s torso and flipped them over in one smooth motion until he was straddling the taller man. They shifted until John was between Sherlock’s legs, his hands pressing Sherlock’s knees back to his chest as he lined his cock up at his entrance. Slowly, firmly, John pressed forward, his cock and Sherlock’s hole both slick with spit and sweat, but not quite enough to keep the roughness at bay. Sherlock dragged his teeth across his lower lip and hissed,  _ “Fuck!” _

 

“Good?”

 

“God, yes! Come on, John,” Sherlock urged, his eyes clamped shut as he rolled his hips upward to meet John’s slow thrust. Once fully seated in Sherlock’s rear, John took a deep breath and let it out slow, trying not to immediately cum from the overwhelming sensation.  _ “John…” _ Sherlock whined and John grinned.

 

“You want it?”

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“You want me to fuck you? Hard? Fast? Rough?” John nipped at the flesh of Sherlock’s inner thigh and was met with a desperate groan. Sherlock clapped a hand to John’s neck and pulled him closer until their noses were nearly touching.

 

“John,” he said in a low, intense tone, “fuck me. Now. And keep in mind that if you don’t, I can very easily poison you.” John smirked and let him have it.

 

He pounded into Sherlock with animal ferocity, pulling him by the hips to snap their bodies together with an obscene  _ slap _ . They slid minutely across the floor with the force of John’s thrusts, their mingled shouts echoing slightly off the bare walls of the empty basement flat. Sherlock wrapped his other hand around John’s neck and pressed their foreheads together. Their lips met briefly, fiercely, but kissing was quickly forgone in favour of breathing heavily into one another’s open mouths. John’s tongue darted out to flick over Sherlock’s plush lips and the sharing of carbon dioxide left him a little light-headed. 

 

“Oh, God, Sherlock,” he panted. “You feel so good… so tight ‒  _ Jesus _ …”

 

“Fuck, John, yes! Touch ‒ touch my cock, please…”

 

John did; propping one elbow beside Sherlock’s head, he snaked his left hand between them and took a firm hold of his erection. Rolling his thumb over the head, John smeared precum along Sherlock’s length and jerked him in swift, decisive strokes. Sherlock’s eyes rolled in his head and his cries intensified. 

 

“Sherlock, look at me ‒  _ ah, God _ ‒ look at me when you cum.” Sherlock forced his eyes to refocus on John and let his fingernails scrape along John’s scalp in desperation. Their gazes locked, Sherlock came over John’s expert hand with a throaty shout. John wasn’t far behind ‒ Sherlock’s release was still pulsing over his fingers when his own orgasm hit. He came deep in Sherlock’s hungry channel and he actually saw stars.  _ “Fuck!” _

 

Who could say how long they lay together, twisted into a pretzel of limbs, heaving as they tried to catch their breath. Eventually, Sherlock grasped John by the forearm and turned his wrist so he could glance at John’s watch. With a sigh, he said, “Just enough time to shower.”

 

“Hmmm,” John murmured against the side of Sherlock’s neck. “I dare you to go like this.”

 

“I have to put my tights back on, John.”

 

“Wait till you get back to shower ‒ I’ll make it worth your while.” John waggled his eyebrows salaciously. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.

 

“You’re an utter pervert, John Watson.”

 

“You like it.”


End file.
